


Your Best Gosling

by shellfishDimes



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then the weird sexual monologues start, about Ajay's jawline and his hair, and Rabi Ray's fantasies about kissing Ryan Gosling and Hrithik Roshan's sixth finger involved in anal fingering, and Ajay doesn't even know who that <i>is</i> until he Googles it, and the first thing he thinks is, holy <i>shit,</i> forget about the fingers, you could do laundry on those abs. The second thing he thinks is—</p><p>"Rabi, are you hitting on me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Best Gosling

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on [tumblr](http://elenei.tumblr.com/post/120737653395)! this is a better version, trust me. you know you want [a musical accompaniment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8D9boeIMMAY) to this fic. (or maybe you don't. that's cool too.)

Rabi Ray is at first just a voice on the radio. An annoying voice, an ever present voice that gets in the way of the music, but just a voice. After dozens of miles, more commandeered cars than Ajay can count, and rickety rickshaws with tinny, shrill radios made by companies that haven't existed since the Cold War, he gets used to the sound of Rabi's voice. He's always running, it seems — running away from hungry predators, to the next mission, towards the nearest road or landmark when the GPS is on the fritz and he has no idea where he's supposed to be going, and so getting into a car, a van, and on one memorable occasion, a huge, brightly decorated truck, turning the radio on and listening to decades-old bhangra with Rabi's interjections about Pagan, the Golden Path, and, increasingly, assholes and the proper hygiene thereof, is one of those rare and calming fixed points when Ajay doesn't have to worry about what will try to kill him next and can just drive wherever he wants, at least until the next song, at least until the next radio call from Amita or Sabal.

Before he goes to the undisclosed broadcasting location of Radio Free Kyrat that's entirely too close to a bell tower to be at all inconspicuous, Ajay pictures Rabi Ray as a weird, eccentric guy in a shirt with a random print on it and some sort of ever-present accessory, like a snapback or aviator Ray Bans, who constantly reeks of weed and can't stop running his mouth even when he's off the air. When he meets Rabi face to face, it turns out his assumptions weren't very far from the truth. The Ray Bans are Chinese knockoffs and the smell of weed isn't nearly as prevalent as he thought, but everything else is pretty much spot on, right down to the way Rabi tends to trail off on long, involved, stream-of-consciousness monologues.

He imagines Chotu as a short and stocky guy with pit stains and a five o'clock shadow who doesn't say much, but is always there to help when Rabi Ray gets the munchies or needs a quick segue into a song. After visiting Rabi, Ajay has no idea _what_ Chotu is, but it's definitely not human. That box Rabi Ray keeps him in might be big, but it's definitely not big enough for a person, regardless of age or size. Ajay just _hopes_ it's not a honey badger. He doesn't ask, because he thinks he's much happier not knowing. 

And then the weird sexual monologues start, about Ajay's jawline and his hair, and Rabi Ray's fantasies about kissing Ryan Gosling and Hrithik Roshan's sixth finger involved in anal fingering, and Ajay doesn't even know who that _is_ until he Googles it, and the first thing he thinks is, holy _shit,_ forget about the fingers, you could do laundry on those abs. The second thing he thinks is—

"Rabi, are you hitting on me?"

"Ajay, dude, I just said thank you," says Rabi Ray, one morning at the radio station near the abandoned jheel. "For the _jalebi_." He raises the slightly battered box of the deep-fried, spiral-shaped sweets Ajay brought when he realised eating even one piece gave him a sugar high, and that Rabi would probably appreciate them more. "I don't know how it is in America, maybe every bit of basic human decency is seen as an invitation to drop your pants and hope for the best, but here in Kyrat—"

"You rant about someone's looks on the radio and hope they're listening?"

It shuts him up, alright. For a moment, at least, he even manages to look taken aback. "I just call 'em like I see 'em, my friend," says Rabi, quickly recovering. "And I see 'em as really, really, ridiculously good looking." He takes a _jalebi_ out of the box and bites into it with relish, biting nearly half of it off in one go. "Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking, Ajay?" he asks around a mouthful of deep-fried dough. "Hey, man, these are _really_ good! Like, the kind of good my Auntie Roshni used to make for Diwali, except these ones don't have stray bits of hair in them. That's always a bonus, don't get me wrong, but sometimes you really appreciate the personal touch, you know what I mean? What? You think my auntie's alopecia is funny?"

Ajay tries to mask his laughter with a cough, and when it doesn't work he just laughs more, until he's unable to keep the grin off his face and Rabi is looking at him with raised eyebrows and his mouth quirked upwards in a weird, awkward smile, like his face isn't really sure whether it should go for incredulous or amused. 

"I am so, so sorry for mocking your aunt's very serious medical condition," says Ajay, trying to keep serious.

Rabi waves the apology off, stuffing the rest of the _jalebi_ into his mouth with his other hand. "Don't worry about it, she makes a fortune on eBay," he says. "People will buy _anything_ on the internet."

"Including a signed photo book of Hrithik Roshan from 2006?"

Rabi Ray bends backwards with lightning speed and reaches across the radio equipment to cover the offending item with some fan letters and random paper junk. "First of all, I like how relaxed you are about pronouncing that right, and second of all, I hope you don't spread that around. It's Chotu's birthday present, and I don't want to ruin the surprise." He rights himself, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and absent-mindedly licking his sugar-sticky fingers.

Ajay looks towards the box usually containing Chotu. It has seemed strangely still and quiet ever since Rabi Ray tossed a _jalebi_ in it. He looks back to Rabi, who shrugs. "Sugar coma," he says. "He'll be out for hours. You're lucky he didn't hear that, man, Chotu _hates_ ruined surprises." 

"You don't need to make excuses," Ajay assures him. "I mean, if you wanted to—" He's always been bad at this. It's not a matter of being unsure what he wants — thankfully, that's never been a problem, but expressing it without bungling up his sentences is something he has yet to master. "I mean, I wouldn't—"

"You're gonna have to use your words, my dude," says Rabi.

"I know you think I'm," Ajay barely pushes the words past his teeth out of sheer embarrassment, "stunningly handsome—"

"Everyone who's seen you knows that," says Rabi Ray, grinning widely. "Like, there's just a panel of judges following you around at all times, holding up perfect tens on their little white boards, that's just the truth."

"Anyway," says Ajay, before this turns into another of Rabi's monologues, "what I'm trying to say is, I wouldn't be against, um..." He trails off, gesturing desperately, and settles for, "If you wanted."

"What, like, be my Ryan Gosling?"

"I—" Ajay tries, but then he just gives up. "Yeah," he says, relieved that Rabi's got it on the first try. "Two Ryan Goslings, if you wanted."

"What?"

"Because— because you mentioned Ryan Gosling kissing you for just a few seconds," Ajay stammers out, embarrassment rising with each passing second. "It was— it was a joke."

Rabi Ray laughs then, a bit of a delayed reaction, but it sounds sincere, the way he sputters a little bit before going into bursts of laughter that almost sound like giggles. "Shit, Ajay," he says once he's regained his breath, "is this a date? With the _jalebi_ and the... Well, actually, you didn't bring anything else. I thought the nice thing to do was to wine and dine someone, and you only covered fifty percent of that, dude! I mean, I'm not expecting some fancy French shit or anything — although that would be fucking _sweet,_ don't get me wrong, you rolling up to my front door with a bottle of Chateau Whatever and a rose between your teeth — but you could have at least brought some Shangri-Lager to show that you _care_ about me keeping my vocal chords lubricated, you know?"

Ajay frowns. "It's seven in the morning, I couldn't find—"

"I'm just fucking with you, man," says Rabi. "Come on, show me your best Gosling."

Rabi is still grinning when Ajay kisses him. His mouth tastes of sugar and his lips are sticky with the syrup from the _jalebi,_ and when his tongue slides against Ajay's, it's with a deliberate kind of ease that implies that Rabi could be doing this all day and wouldn't get tired of it. Ajay's hands go to Rabi's waist to pull him closer because, honestly, why not, and Rabi goes, not missing a beat as he puts a hand on the back of Ajay's neck, tilting his head down to get a better angle for the kiss. His sunglasses dig into the side of Ajay's face, and Ajay hums a bit in protest until he feels Rabi push them up his face and into his hair. They keep kissing for a while, until one of Rabi's hands is unmistakeably on Ajay's ass and Ajay has him almost pinned against the table, dangerously close to knocking against some of the inexplicably confusing radio equipment.

And then the current song ends, and Rabi breaks the kiss, twisting his upper body away from Ajay to reach across the table for the microphone. He raises a finger in the air, warning Ajay to keep quiet, and flicks the switch.

"Good morning, my dear listeners! It's your boy, Rabi Ray Rana, here on Radio Free Kyrat!" he says into the microphone in that eternally enthusiastic radio voice of his. "And it's a beautiful morning as well, you guys — the birds are singing, the sun is shining, the honey badgers are asleep, and Chotu's embarrassing personal problem seems to have gone away. At least for the moment. And not only that, but I have it on good authority that our country's newest, _handsomest_ hero, Ajay Ghale," he winks at Ajay then, and Ajay grins, rolling his eyes fondly, "has managed to charm his way past rationing restrictions and sugar shortage and against all odds, against _all odds_ , you guys, he's found an untapped vein of _jalebi_ somewhere in Tirtha. Get it while it's hot! Share it with your friends! But don't tell my brother Ranjit, because he's an asshole who doesn't know when to quit." He brings the microphone closer to his mouth, almost pushing it against his lips. "You're not getting those twenty rupees back, Ranjit! I won them off you fair and square, so stop asking! Anyway, back to the music." He turns the microphone off and flicks a different switch, and music that's far too lively for the early morning starts playing again.

"Seven o'clock wake up call," Rabi explains, turning back to face Ajay. "My listeners would be lost without it. Wouldn't know what time of the day it is. Is it time to let the yaks out to graze, or is it time to agonise about our uncertain future? They'd have no idea without me telling them!"

He seems to stare off into space for a while, but then he narrows his eyes in surprise, looking at Ajay's face. He lowers his sunglasses, and raises them again, eyes wide. "Your eyes are brown?! Ajay, why didn't you tell me? I said they were the colour of the ocean, and you just let me talk! Aw, man, I can't believe this! Am I gonna have to get new sunglasses now? Hey, what's funny? Why are you laughing? Share it with the class, come on! Ajay!"


End file.
